


From Boston to Paris

by LupaDracolis



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Independence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LupaDracolis/pseuds/LupaDracolis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Approaching the table from either side, they each signed the treaty. England with a cramped scrawl, and America with a flourish. The thirteen united states of America were finally, officially, his. And his alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Boston to Paris

Boston, December 16, 1773

The two men are walking up the quay, arguing loudly. One, although noticeably taller, is also clearly younger than the other. He is the loudest, and is waving his arms in the air as if to accentuate his points. His partner, who has very large, bushy eyebrows, and a more refined voice, is by no means less angry, but is showing it in a colder fashion.

Heads turn to watch them pass, little knowing that one is their very own country-but-not-quite, America, and the other is his carer, his big brother, his master, England.

Finally, it seems to those watching, the taller of the two can take their argument no longer. Instead of continuing their walk down the quay, he strides in great bounds up the gangplank of a ship, and grabs a large crate from two sailors, who had been unloading it.

Lifting it high in his arms, he walked briskly over to the side of the ship, and throws it over, shouting angrily, “I’m not your little brother any more, England!”

Murmurs start up and down the quay. Starting with those near the ship, and quickly spreading. If the surprised and angry blond was really the personification of England, then it must be their own America who threw that barrel over the side of the ship. And if so…

Seemingly all of a sudden, what looked to be countless crates were being thrown overboard, amid cheers and shouts for freedom, the crates and crates of tea splashed into the Boston waters. Amid it all, England and America stood, facing each other. England on shore; America on ship; crate in sea. They stood there, watching one another, until England gave a curt nod of farewell, and strode off, shoulders stiff. Leaving America all alone, among his people, who immediately began to cheer louder still at England’s departure.

 

Paris, May 12, 1784

They were standing across from each other, clean and smartly dressed, for the first time in what felt like almost forever, but really it had only been a few years. War, after all, tended to drag in one’s mind, twisting itself into something longer and more savage and more brutal and oh, so much more painful.

The war sat like a snake, curled inside of England. But there America stood, in a fresh, new suit someone had no doubt bought for him, the idiot. His muscles were relaxed, his eyes bright, and his smile easy, as he tilted his head towards Franklin, saying something to make him laugh.

And now they were walking forward, everything over save the signing of the paper that lay on the table in front of them. The humans all sat down, reading over the paper carefully, once more, together, but England and America remained standing.

At first, America watched the men read, but after a short while he glanced up, to see England staring at him. He even had the _sheer audacity_ to start to smile at England, but a quick and angry scowl soon put that to rights.

When the men were done, it was the countries’ turns. Approaching the table from either side, they each signed the treaty. England with a cramped scrawl, and America with a flourish. The thirteen united states of America were finally, officially, his. And his alone.

As soon as he had finished his name, England dropped his pen, striding out of the room. To his surprise and great annoyance, there was a responding clatter of pen-on-wood-floor, and the sound of quick footsteps behind him.

“Hey! Eng- Iggy, wait!” England froze at the sound of the old nickname, unfortunately giving the other a chance to catch up.

“No.” He forced out from between clenched teeth.

“H-huh? Iggy?” Came the voice of his- of _that moron_ from behind him.

“No. You do not call me “Iggy”. Not anymore.” He set off once more, trying to block out America’s call;

“Iggy! I’m not going to stop! Not ever!”


End file.
